


Beautiful

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Category: Oliver & Company (1988)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crimes & Criminals, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Not Beta Read, Random & Short, Unrequited Crush, fairly vague on everything except oliver and dodge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: Oliver Foxworth was a great many things, but mostly he liked to consider himself a good person.This was not always true, and he resented the world for testing him on it.But at least he tried.
Relationships: Dodger & Oliver (Disney: Oliver & Company), Jenny Foxworth & Oliver (Disney: Oliver & Company), Jenny Foxworth/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. a good person

Oliver Foxworth was a great many things, at the ‘tender’ age of 17―among them a conman, a thief, a loving brother, and someone generally considered to be of the city’s elite―, but he liked to think that there were still things well outside of the range of possibility for him.

For instance, he didn’t think that he would ever stoop so low as to knowingly steal from someone who was barely surviving on their paychecks, because he’d been in that position once and even if he hadn’t been he was of the opinion that pulling stunts like that was a one way ticket to Hell and to absolutely no one ever owing you a single kindness for the rest of your miserable life. He also liked to think he wouldn’t stoop far enough to rape someone, or to drug someone, or to kidnap someone.

Thankfully, so far, the world hadn’t decided to prove him wrong about any of that, except in the case of the first one, but, then… Well, there was a difference between stealing something for his own gain and stealing something just to mess with somebody.

_ Especially _ if that someone was Dodger.

All that said, though, he also liked to think that he was, you know, a  _ good person _ in spite of his professions. Or maybe because of them? He wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure that anyone adopted into a rich family like the Foxworth family without having to beg, steal, lie, and cheat to survive beforehand would turn out terribly great. Trauma builds character, and all that bull.

… Not the point.

Point was, he liked to think he was a good person, and of all of the things that the world could choose to test him on it just  _ had _ to choose  _ that one. _

He licked his split lip to avoid dripping blood anywhere, gaze dropping to his swiftly bruising and even more swiftly swelling knuckles. He felt like he’d broken one of them. All he could do for now was hope that he was wrong and that it was just sore from hitting that jerk’s face the wrong way.

His eyes flicked over to the jerk in question, who sat slumped against the outer wall of one of the many warehouses down here at the wharf. He was unconscious, sporting a black eye, a broken nose, and probably a bruised rib or two, if not a  _ broken _ rib or two. Oliver was aware that he’d done quite a number on him.

In his mind, there was nothing for it―the jerk had started a fight, Oliver had finished it. That was how he was taught. Don’t start fights, finish them, and always finish what you start. Defend yourself when someone else starts throwing hands.

There was nothing for it.

This was the logical conclusion for this particular confrontation.

… But was it really?

He shook the thought away, licking his bleeding bottom lip again. Even if this was only the logical conclusion by street standards, and not the standards that the Foxworths had nailed into his head for the past ten years, it was still a logical conclusion. And besides, the way that the Foxworths acted, they seemed to think Oliver was too much of a softie to clock a jerk behind a warehouse anyway.

Yeah. This was a logical conclusion. He hadn’t done anything wrong by his own moral code. He could sleep peacefully tonight knowing he hadn’t committed some atrocious, unforgivable sin.

Or, well, he  _ would _ sleep peacefully…

… If he could go home tonight.

But there was a small set of associated problems with going home.

First things first, there was Jenny, his adoptive sister and the one who had actually found him and gotten him adopted into the family. Now, Jenny knew the kind of life he’d lived before she found him and she was well aware of the fact that he never really stopped living it. Jenny understood him and never once pestered him to change his behavior. She accepted him as he was. She was not actually a problem, in and of herself, but if Jenny was at the house at this hour, so was her boyfriend, and her boyfriend did not know Oliver very well at all while Oliver knew him perhaps a bit  _ too _ well given they’d met three times. He would draw a lot of conclusions if he saw Oliver walk in at midnight with a split lip, a limp, bloody knuckles, and a hell of a black eye, and while maybe some of those conclusions wouldn’t be necessarily wrong, he couldn’t afford to taint his reputation with someone who probably wasn’t going to stick around long enough for him to fix it.

Secondly, there was the matter of Winston, the butler, who was no doubt going to know the moment he entered the house, and more than he couldn’t afford Jenny’s boyfriend seeing him in the aftermath of a fight, he could not afford Winston seeing any evidence of less than stellar behavior.

This was, of course, because of the  _ third _ issue―his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Foxworth. As their adopted son, someone they  _ knew _ had lived on the streets, there were a lot of standards they expected him to live up to. They wanted him to stay out of trouble, first and foremost, and coming home like  _ this _ was a good way to have Winston call them and for them to promptly ground him until he was 18. He  _ really _ didn’t feel up to dealing with that right now, especially since getting caught sneaking out would just make things worse on himself afterward.

Not coming home at night was something they were alright with, strangely enough. One of the few troublesome things he could get away with. As long as he wasn’t actually breaking the city’s curfew, he could stay wherever he wanted overnight.

… As long as he didn’t get  _ caught _ breaking curfew, he could stay wherever he wanted.

They assumed he was staying overnight with friends any time he didn’t come home.

He was glad for that, and never moreso than he was right now. He couldn’t go home tonight. He absolutely could not.

The issue was that he didn’t really have anywhere else he could go.

Not anymore.

Once upon a time, he had a safe second home, somewhere full of people he loved and trusted who would never turn him away just for being a little beaten up. They’d be worried for him, sure, and they’d want to take it up with whoever he’d been fighting with, but they’d let him spend the night and in the morning they’d help him cover it all up… Not that he’d gotten into terribly many fights in the past, but he’d gotten into enough scuffles that he knew the procedure.

But that was all in the past now.

He couldn’t go and see them. Couldn’t ask for their help.

All because he’d gone and gotten a crush on the  _ wrong _ person and got into a  _ huge _ argument with that particular person about it, and he  _ may _ or may not have said a lot of things that he didn’t mean which  _ may  _ have resulted in that particular person telling him not to come back. Ever.

… That was almost two years ago, and the ache never really left his chest over the whole ordeal.

Did the others know what happened? Were they angry at him? Did they understand why he didn’t come see them anymore? Or did it just seem like he stopped showing up after that for no reason at all?

It ate at him all the time,  _ constantly, _ but even moreso on the rare occasions when he  _ really _ needed somewhere to go and was reminded of how royally he’d screwed himself over by letting himself get into a shouting match with  _ him. _ He’d screwed himself out of a safe place, out of a family, and out of the best friends he thought he could ever have. If he’d have just stayed calm, or better, stayed  _ quiet _ and kept his feelings to himself, none of it would have had to happen.

But, whatever.

Whatever.

He needed to get moving and find somewhere to be for the night. Maybe he could sneak into his room through his window or something here in a couple of hours.

He licked his bloody lip again, turned on his heel, and took off back in the general direction of home. If he was sneaky enough he could just wander around until it was late enough for him to try and sneak in. All he had to do was steer clear of cops, and, well, he considered himself to be pretty good at that after ten years.

He shoved his bruised hands into the pockets of his tastefully cheap jacket, wincing a bit as he emerged from the cover of all of those warehouses and found himself assaulted by crisp, cold winds. It was getting cold out as the autumn weather began to threaten an early winter, and honestly that was his biggest issue with having nowhere safe to tuck in for the night. He’d almost frozen to death on the streets once―he wasn’t keen on playing that game again.

He hunched his shoulders up to protect his neck and just… Walked. Simply let his legs take him wherever they were going to take him and only really kept an eye out for cops rather than his actual surroundings. It wasn't like he could end up anywhere worse than where he'd started.

The sting of the wind on his face soon became little more than a slight annoyance to him. He’d certainly endured colder, both willingly and unwillingly. Like last year when the family went skiing―it was un _ godly _ cold up on that mountain, but he’d survived. Gotten used to it, even. This was nothing, in comparison.

And, he had to admit, the knowledge that he could go home at some point tonight made it easier to bare. He just had to wait it out and be very, very careful not to make enough noise to get himself caught by some upstanding citizen.

He’d have to be even  _ more _ careful to keep away from the folks who would sooner mug him than toss him to the cops―he didn’t have enough in him for another fight tonight.

He ducked behind cars and mailboxes here and there, cut through a few alleys to avoid people, but overall didn’t need to do much watching of his surroundings. Seemed the cops were on low alert tonight, and there didn’t seem to be many other people awake or out. That was for the best, for him.

His mind wandered as he walked, slinking his way through the streets and through his thoughts. Through memories. Frankly, he still had a hard time believing anything he’d been through had actually happened, especially after the day that he met Jenny―she’d been a turning point in his life. A  _ huge _ one. She’d changed the course of his entire life and gotten him off the streets.

Mind grinding to a halt, he realized that he recognized the road he was currently walking. His head jerked up, and a place he remembered all too clearly spread itself out before him.

There was the pier, and below it, Fagin’s little rundown hideout.

A lump built in his throat―of  _ course _ his traitorous legs had to bring him back here. Back where he was no longer welcome. Back where he’d spent so much time, made so many good memories… He missed this place terribly. He missed everything about it. He missed the residents hidden within, the total lack of privacy, the roof constantly in danger of falling in, the old, moth-eaten furniture, and the way that, even in the dead of winter, there was never a place that felt more warm in his memory.

The Foxworth house was wonderful, it  _ was, _ and it was well-built with solid walls and a solid roof, and central heating and air conditioning, but it was… It was  _ too much _ for him, oftentimes. Too well-built, too well-insulated, too big.

Just.

Too much.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and spun on his heel, swiftly stalking off back down the road that led here. He wasn’t wanted here, wasn’t welcome, and he didn’t plan on being caught lingering nearby. He wouldn’t let himself seem stuck on the one he’d fell for, still desperate for his attention. It wasn’t worth the effort or the heartache to let himself even think about seeing him again.

Fifteen year old him was probably the biggest idiot in the world for not just letting things lie.

He heaved out a sigh, hunching his shoulders up again, and turned down a side street. From there, he slipped into an alley, looped his way back to the main road, and hoped he was far enough away to have a reasonable excuse for being here if he happened to be caught.

On the bright side, the cops didn’t really come down here much.

On the downside, that meant there were only a handful of people he was afraid of being caught by, now.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat again, clenching his aching fists where they sat in his pockets. He felt stupid for being so upset over this. It had been  _ two years. _ It had been two years and he hadn’t seen nor spoken to any of the others involved in it since. He should be over it.

He shouldn’t still find himself wandering back to Fagin’s place every time he went walking around.

He was turning down another side street to head toward the less slummy parts of town when he was knocked rather forcefully from his thoughts when he impacted a firm, warm object that he hadn’t expected at all. Someone’s chest? No one else was usually hanging around here at this hour. Who in the  _ world― _

He stumbled back, hands leaving his pockets to help him balance himself out before he could fall, and his eyes flicked up to whoever was desperate enough to be wandering around the pier at this time of night at this time of year. He prepared to speak, to apologize for running into them, offer them help finding what they were looking for if need be. He was ready to put on the charm, become a trustworthy gentleman with a heart of gold, but then…

But then, he saw who he’d run into.


	2. good in everyone

Dodger hadn’t changed much in the last two years―that was the first thought that occurred to Oliver.

Dodger hadn’t changed much at all.

He’d finished growing years ago, though, so Oliver wasn’t terribly surprised. He guessed he just expected a 21 year old Dodger to somehow look less sleazy than 19 year old Dodger had. Or, well, maybe not less  _ sleazy, _ but certainly less vintage Greaser.

As it was… Well, he was still wearing the same style of holey jeans, still wearing a worn-out t-shirt, still wearing a beaten-up black faux-leather jacket and scuffed up trainers that stopped being white about a month after he’d gotten them some six years ago. He still had scruffy medium long hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. Still had just that hint of five o’clock shadow. Still had a set of Aviators sitting on top of his head.

He was still exactly the same as the last time Oliver had seen him, and against his wishes he felt his heart thud solidly in his chest. All of the words he’d been planning to say whooshed right out of his head.

He just stared, frozen to the spot with his hands still ready to catch himself.

Dodger stared back.

Oliver wasn’t sure what Dodger was feeling right now, couldn’t make sense of the expression on his face through the gloom. It scared him. Terrified him, really. He hated not knowing what Dodger was thinking.

Finally, Dodger took a half-step forward.

“Kid?” He asked.

All at once, it felt as if his limbs unlocked along with his brain. His eyes flicked around for a convenient escape, but found none, strafing back to Dodger as quickly as possible. He took a step back, heart pounding.

Dodger’s brows furrowed a little. Oliver’s eyes flicked down the long road with no cover, nowhere to hide, just a few alleys and side streets that, if he was lucky, he could bolt down. He jerked his gaze back toward the older male in front of him.

“Kid,” Dodger repeated, sounding a little hesitant as he stepped toward him again.

He’d no more than taken that one step forward before Oliver jerked back out onto the sidewalk and booked it down the road. He heard Dodger shout in surprise, then heard him thumping down the sidewalk behind him.

So much for his head start.

Maybe if he just ran far enough Dodger would give up and go home. Maybe if he got out of Fagin’s territory, he’d be left alone. Left to run home, unpursued.

Problem was, he didn’t have terribly much energy left for running and it was hard to breathe when you were on the verge of crying from a nasty cocktail of emotions like the one rattling around in his chest. He felt lightheaded as he skidded his way around the corner of a building and down the alley next to it, but he pushed on. He pushed on even as he felt his legs growing weak and shaky the longer he struggled to pull in a substantial breath.

He skidded around another building onto a side street, vaulted over a garbage can left in the middle of the sidewalk, and looked desperately for somewhere he could hide before Dodger could catch up to him. He could hear him just far enough behind him that if he were able to duck off the street and roll under something, he’d completely lose his trail.

Drawing in the deepest, least shaking breath he could manage, he prepared himself for what would essentially be his last hurrah for the night. He’d have to stay wherever he hid until morning, most likely, because he wasn’t walking anywhere after this―especially not all the way back home.

Seeing his opening, he legged it across the road, using his remaining energy to sprint up the sidewalk and fling himself into the first alley he saw.

He saw his mistake immediately, eyes locking onto the dead end of the alley.

If he had more energy, he could scramble his way up the fire escape next to him and wait for Dodger to give up the chase… But he didn’t have that kind of energy. He barely had enough to stumble his way to the middle of the alley.

He cursed, winded, and ducked behind a dumpster, knowing that he’d wasted too much time and that Dodger  _ had _ to have seen him duck into this alley. He had nothing better to do now than wait for Dodger to come find him, so he just crouched down on the balls of his feet and tried to catch his breath between panting and suppressing a stray half-sob or two. He even let himself think, for a second, how ridiculous and out of place he must look ducked down beside a dumpster. He was wearing nice black jeans, a nice white shirt, and a fairly cheap, but still nice, navy blue jacket. His hair was still in okay shape despite tonight’s activities, his shoes were newish and still looked nice…

He was a rich kid in a slum, hiding next to a dumpster.

If he’d seen someone of his class in this situation about ten years ago, he’d have laughed at the irony. Now he just resigned himself to the fact that he really didn’t have a place in this world anymore, no matter how much more comfortable he felt in it than the one he was expected to take part in.

Footsteps approached.

He blew out a slow breath and kept his head down.

Footsteps stalled in front of him.

“... Kid?” Dodger asked him again, soft, maybe even worried.

Oliver exhaled a breath of a laugh, feeling ridiculous and stupid for even being in this situation.

He heard Dodger crouch down in front of him, felt the air shift with his sudden proximity.

“Jesus, kid,” He said after a moment, sounding very much worried indeed, with a hint of disbelief, “What’d you do to yourself?”

It occurred to Oliver that he’d left his arms hanging over his legs, putting his hands on full display to Dodger. He huffed out another laugh and sat back, back to the wall, and averted his gaze as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. The older male’s gaze moved to his face and stayed there. Firmly.

“Quit staring at me.” Oliver finally said, voice tight and altogether more flat than he’d intended.

Dodger seemed to sit back just a little, and when Oliver glanced at his face he looked a little caught off guard.

“Kid―” He started.

“Oliver.” He corrected, voice still flat.

“Oliver,” Dodger amended too easily, “Seriously. What’d you do?”

“Don’t see why it matters.” He licked at his finally scabbed lip and shifted as the ache in his lower back that had him limping earlier returned. “Not like it’s your business.”

The older male visibly winced at that, like Oliver had struck him.

“Well excuse me,” He said after a second, “If I’m worried when the first time I see ya in two years, you look like you got into it with Sykes’ boys.”

Oliver couldn’t help snorting at that. He hadn’t seen Roscoe or DeSoto in a couple of years, either, but at least he wouldn’t have ever had any doubts about kicking  _ their _ asses being the right thing to do. Sykes’ boys deserved nothing less than a swift boot to the head. They were  _ scum, _ just like their dad.

“I fail to see the humor in that idea.” Dodger said, voice now just as flat as Oliver’s had been.

“Shame.” Oliver said flippantly, “I fail to see a reason to explain it to you.”

Dodger made a sound like a growl, annoyance flickering onto his face, “Dammit, kid, will you just tell me what happened?”

Oliver recoiled at the tone of voice, in spite of knowing it was coming and that he wasn’t helping the situation by being difficult. He jerked back a little, physically, hunching up his shoulders and setting his gaze on one particular brick in the wall further down the alley.

“Still don’t see why it matters.” He muttered.

The older man groaned, flopping onto his butt from his crouch and scrubbing his face with his hands. “Where have you even been?”

“Not at Fagin’s place.” He supplied unhelpfully, feeling that familiar sting and lump in his throat crawling back up, “But you knew that.”

“Yeah, no  _ shit _ .” Dodger huffed out, scrubbing his face again and knocking his Aviators askew atop his head.

Oliver didn’t have anything clever to say to that, so he just stayed quiet, trying very hard to stare at that one brick and not let his gaze slip back to Dodger. But no matter what he did, he just kept sneaking glances at him. He couldn’t help himself.

It had been two years, after all. He’d missed him, missed seeing him and hearing his voice and being able to joke around with him. He’d missed stealing his Aviators and playing keep-away with them because it never failed to make both of them smile by the time Dodger got them back. He’d missed being allowed to get close to him, cuddle up to him on cold nights when he couldn’t go home for whatever reason.

And even if it boiled his blood just a  _ teensy _ bit that it hadn’t gone away, he still felt that same old spark of affection in his chest looking at the older man now. He knew that if he left it alone, it would flare up into the smoldering cinders of a crush, and if he let that do its thing it’d turn into a full-hearted love that blistered and scorched him everywhere it touched until it hollowed out his chest.

He swallowed, shifted and tried not to wince, and just continued trying to stare at that one brick.

It was silent for a long moment. If he still had the energy he’d have used the silence and calm to his advantage―let Dodger get comfortable, complacent, and just fucking  _ book _ it again… But he didn’t have that kind of energy. He was stuck here until his legs stopped shaking and he could draw in a full breath without forcing it.

“... Why didn’t you ever come back?” Dodger finally asked, voice terribly soft and hesitant in comparison to the flat irritation it had held before.

Oliver froze, went stiff. Of all the questions Dodger could ask…

“You made it pretty clear you didn’t want me around.” He managed to reply.

It burned him more than anything else at all that he’d  _ almost _ managed to sound flippant. Almost managed to make it seem like he didn’t care anymore.  _ Almost, _ but he didn’t quite make it. His voice shook, cracking on the last word, and he felt tears stinging at his eyes.

Dodger’s hands fell from his face, and Oliver could feel him staring at him again, but now he was managing  _ exceptionally _ well at the whole not looking at Dodger thing. He always was better at avoiding eye contact when he was trying not to cry.

“If that’s the case,” Dodger said, voice sounding a little flatter again, “Then what are you doing here tonight?”

“I can’t go home like this.” The younger uttered bitterly, “Not until Winston goes to bed. I was  _ trying _ to waste time until I was sure he was out but of fucking  _ course _ I ended up back here just like every other  _ fucking _ time I let myself get too out of my head when I can’t go home.” He managed to turn the sob that wanted to leave him into a harsh laugh, “I just can’t stay away no matter how fucking hard I try. Pathetic, right?”

Dodger continued to stare at him.

Oliver considered that, maybe, his liberal use of the f-bomb might have something to do with that reaction. After all―last time Dodger had seen him, he’d barely spoken more than two or three curses a  _ day, _ nevermind two or three in as many sentences.

Dodger hadn’t changed much since the last time Oliver saw him, but Oliver knew that he’d changed a lot, himself, since that night. He was self-aware enough to know that a lot of those changes weren’t for the better.

“... You end up back here a lot, huh?” Dodger finally asked, voice having gone soft again.

Sympathetic. Careful.

Oliver could only swallow and blink away those traitorous tears. He didn’t have anything to say even if he could speak without it devolving into sobs. What would be the point?

“Jeez, kid,” Dodger sighed when he realized he wasn’t going to justify that with an answer. There was another silence, and Dodger sighed again, sounding resigned. “C’mon,” He said, holding out a hand.

Oliver’s eyes flicked to Dodger’s face, and seeing that he didn’t look mad helped a little with the whole not crying thing. The resigned look on his face didn’t, however, because it just made him feel kind of like a burden.

He bit down on his lip and regarded the offered hand for a moment, then, feeling weak and stupid and even more like he was going to cry, withdrew a hand from his pocket. Watched it shake as he reached out. Laid his hand in Dodger’s and kicked the part of himself that immediately rejoiced in touching him, because that part of him was the part that got him into this mess to begin with.

Dodger closed his fingers around his hand, stood, and hauled him up, and Oliver helped in the ordeal the best that he could.

He was still shaking and at this point he wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion of having run through the streets of New York all night that had him trembling or the threat of dissolving into tears. He took his hand back from Dodger the moment it was polite to do so and shoved it into his pocket, watching him with burning, tired eyes to see what was going to happen next.

Dodger just watched him return for a moment, then looked away, “Ya think Winston’s asleep?”

“Probably.” Oliver bit down on his lip again to fight off tears and the continued rising urge to just start sobbing.

He saw Dodger again and it was only going to end in pain for him the same way it had last time. He knew that.

“I’ll walk ya.” Dodger said, and Oliver’s eyes snapped back to him from where they’d wandered back to that distant brick. Dodger shrugged when he noticed Oliver staring at him, trying and failing to look nonchalant, “You look like you’re gonna keel over, kid―sorry.  _ Oliver.” _

Oliver swallowed. Sighed and shifted,  _ “Feel _ like I’m gonna keel over.” He admitted in a grumble, “But that’s an awful long way out of your way.”

Dodger hummed his acknowledgement, but shrugged again. “Aint no thing.”

“Okay,” Oliver agreed, too easily. Too quickly. “If you insist.”

He tried for a joking tone, but it fell flat and he wasn’t surprised or necessarily upset.

“I insist.” Dodger replied with a roll of his eyes and a certainly more exasperatedly amused tone than Oliver had managed.

And they meandered out of the alleyway together, with Dodger immediately taking point. At least with him here, Oliver was safe from the cops. Couldn’t get in trouble for being out past curfew if he had an adult with him. Then he’d just look like he’d stayed too late at an older friend’s house and was walking home with them, which would only be partially a lie.

Oliver caught him continually sneaking glances on the way, eyes constantly catching on his bloody lip and bruised cheek. Would probably be catching on his bruised knuckles if they weren’t hidden away in his pockets.

“... Fist fight.” He finally said, voice a little rough since he still sort of wanted to cry.

“Huh?” Dodger actually turned his head toward him.

“I got in a fist fight.” Oliver clarified, itching his nose and avoiding eye contact, “Earlier tonight. That’s what happened.”

“...  _ You _ got into a fist fight.” Dodger said, as if he wasn’t sure he believed it.

Oliver didn’t really blame him. “It’s unfortunately pretty common these days.” He snorted, nonetheless, “This guy was just some jerk―most of ‘em are.”

“So, what? You just started sockin’ jerkbags after we got into it?” Dodger supposed, arching a brow and sounding overall unimpressed.

“Not exactly?” He shrugged, still avoiding eye contact, “More like Jen’s boyfriend hit her a couple weeks later and I knocked the shit out of him for it… And it all went downhill from there.” He laughed a little, “Turns out letting your sister date other rich folks is a bad call and you’ll end up in a lot of fist fights because of one asshole ex.”

Dodger was silent, and Oliver still refused to look at him.

Finally, the Foxworth house loomed up in front of them, and Dodger sighed, stopping.

Oliver paused, glancing at him at last.

“Come by tomorrow.” Dodger said, finally, looking him dead on, “... S’different without ya around, kid.”

Oliver bit down on the way he wanted to sass him in reply.

“Okay.” He said, eventually. “Sure.”

Dodger gave a half-smile, patted his shoulder, and seemed to try and suppress a snort when Oliver hauled himself up onto the tall wall that guarded their back yard. He paused, sitting there, and licked his scabbed lip again.

“Hey, Dodge?” He said, “I’m sorry.”

Dodger gave him that same sort of half-smile, “So am I, kid. See ya tomorrow?”

“Count on it.” Oliver said, starting to smile, and swung his legs over the fence and dropped into his back yard.

**Author's Note:**

> aight so usually i'll start a story with a vague idea of how i plan to finish it but this was not one of those times lol
> 
> there was probably originally going to be more? but i decided two chapters was enough.


End file.
